


Numb

by Severina



Category: Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-16
Updated: 2014-07-16
Packaged: 2018-02-09 03:09:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1966731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severina/pseuds/Severina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He wasn't bit, and though the wound looked bad – from what little she could see when he came stumbling in leaning heavily on Rick's arm, before Tara rushed past her with the medical kit and the door was shut unceremoniously in her face – she knew that Daryl was a fighter.  He would get through this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Numb

**Author's Note:**

> Post Season Four. The gang has escaped Terminus and Beth has found her way back to her family. 
> 
> Written for tumblr's Bethyl Week, Day Three. Prompt: "numb"
> 
> * * *

Beth hovered outside the door of the storage room, trying not to fret. He wasn't bit, that was the main thing. He wasn't bit, and though the wound looked bad – from what little she could see when he came stumbling in leaning heavily on Rick's arm, before Tara rushed past her with the medical kit and the door was shut unceremoniously in her face – she knew that Daryl was a fighter. He would get through this. 

She tried not to pace, and it was only when her fingers began to ache that she realized she was actually wringing her hands, like some heroine out of an overwrought soap opera. She forced herself to stop, leaned restlessly against the wall instead and stared at the door as though her willpower alone could force it to open. 

Time didn't really have meaning anymore, but she had gone through half a bottle of water and had resumed her agitated pacing by the time Rick finally emerged from the room, Tara in his wake.

"How is he? Is he all right?" She tried to push past Rick without waiting for an answer, could just see the edge of the cot through the sliver of the door before Rick held up his hand. She stopped instinctively, honed by two years of looking to the man for cues on when it was safe to move forward, when hanging back and using caution was required. So she stuttered mid-step, her eyes drawn to the blood staining Rick's palm. 

"He's lost a lot of blood," Rick said. "Tara knows a little first aid—"

"Just what they taught us at the Academy," Tara interrupted. "Enough to keep people going until the paramedics showed up…"

"More than I remember from my days with the force," Rick said. 

Beth grabbed Rick's arm, felt the muscles trembling where her nails bit into his skin. She didn't care who did what. She cared about Daryl.

"Rick," she bit out. "Is he all right?"

"We cleaned out the wound, stitched it up. We gave him some painkillers and a sedative. Not much left out of that stash we found hidden at the clinic, we're gonna need to find a directory, see if there's anywhere else local we can hit. We weren't quite sure how much to give him—"

_"Rick."_

He seemed to realize he was rambling, swiped a hand through his beard and focused on her for the first time. She didn't know how bad it had gotten on the run – she'd been on baby duty when Carol shouted that they were back and the door banged open and suddenly Carl was there, meeting her eyes and taking Judith wordlessly from her arms. On her mad dash through the complex she heard only scattered voices, the foraging party trapped by a herd, Rick and Daryl saving the day. But she can see in Rick's eyes now that whatever the details, it will be haunting him for a while. 

"We think he's going to be fine," Rick said. 

She felt all the breath go out of her at once, realized that she was close to tears. She released Rick's arm, took a shuddering step away from him. At some point Tara had drifted away, leaving her and Rick alone in the hallway. For the first time since they got back she could hear life going in in the rest of the office complex, Sasha's voice directing the placement of the haul from the run and Carol's indistinct reply. She took a deep breath, rubbed at her eyes. "I'm gonna go see him now."

Again, Rick held up a hand. "He's quieted some now, but he was pretty out of it earlier. From the pain, from the drugs we gave him. Before the sedative hit, he was raving about his brother. And you."

"Me?"

"Losing you hit him pretty hard, Beth."

When she closes her eyes she can still smell the interior of that trunk, dried blood and oil and the rank odor of chemicals. She can still feel the shape of the tire iron in her fist, and hear the crunch of bone when it struck her kidnapper's kneecap. Remembering the months of happiness that she'd spent with Daryl was the only thing that got her through the dark weeks without him. 

"I missed him too," she said simply. She huffed out an impatient breath. "And I'm going in to see him now."

* * *

Tara had taken the kerosene lamp with her when she left, so the room was lit only a single candle. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust, and then she could only see how pale his skin looked beneath his tan, how still he was beneath the blanket. For a moment she feared the worst, and then he shifted slightly and she could breathe again.

She crossed the room quietly, stood at the head of the bed. "How you feelin'?"

Daryl's eyes fluttered opened. He stared blankly for a moment before fixating on her, eyes bright with either fever or the painkillers. "Gettin' damn tired of nearly gettin' killed lookin' for people," he rasped out. "Wish you people'd just stay put."

Her last conscious memory before she passed out that night was of Daryl's voice, screaming her name. She still remembers him getting up at dawn every day to look for Carol's little girl; heard tales from Maggie and Glenn on how he took the lead in their rescue at Woodbury. Much as it scared her, she knows it will always be Daryl, because he _believes_. He doesn't give up hope – not then, and not now.

She smiled down at him. "Next time you'll have to go with them, make sure everything goes strictly according to the Dixon rulebook."

"Damn straight," Daryl mumbled.

She opened her mouth, hesitated before continuing. She still wakes up at night, blinking in the dark and breathing in the fumes again, fighting against her blankets. But she tried to pitch her voice light, fight past the memories to the truth of the matter. She got herself free. She found her family again. She'll heal. "And next time I get kidnapped, I'll just tell my abductor to return me right away so you don't get pissed off."

"Ain't gonna be no next time," he said. "Watchin' you like a hawk."

She smiled again, because the thought isn't exactly unwelcome, and perched carefully on the edge of the cot, ducked her head to meet his eyes. "You never answered me. How you feelin'?"

His gaze flitted away, to the candle, the walls with their shelves of toner and copier paper, the cart with the wobbly wheel that they sometimes use to drag Judith up and down the halls, the baby screaming with delight. Her chest tightened, the relief she felt at hearing him talking normally snatched away at the thought that the injury was worse than she thought. That maybe they were keeping things from her.

She swallowed dryly, tried to keep her voice calm. "Daryl?"

"Can't feel my arm," he finally mumbled.

"Oh," she said softly. "Oh Daryl, no. No, they shot you full of sedatives and… oh gosh, who knows what else. Your arm is gonna be just fine!"

He took a shuddering breath, his eyelids briefly fluttering closed. She reached out instinctively to take his good hand, and when his fingers automatically entwined with hers she couldn't help the surge of joy at the simple touch. "Do you need anything? Is there anything I can do?"

The coarse blanket wrapped around his middle suddenly seemed very interesting, and Beth frowned when he released her hand to pluck at an errant thread. For a long moment he didn't answer, and when she saw his eyes drooping tiredly she moved to get up from the cot. She should leave him to his rest. She resisted the urge to brush his sweaty hair back from his eyes, resolved to take the memory of the rough skin of his palm against hers to get her through to her next visit. 

Then he blinked lazily up at her. "A kiss," he said softly.

She grinned. "A kiss to make it better? I think I can handle that, Mr. Dixon."

The wound was puckered and raw, but she'd seen worse. They all had. She picked a spot near the edge of the long jagged cut, pressed her lips softly against the skin there. She tasted the tang of the medicated swabs they'd used to clean the wound, the subtle coppery flavor of his blood, the sweet salty taste of him. And she remembered the stories he'd told her of his childhood on the long nights they spent together, and her own mother pressing soft kisses on every one of her childhood cuts and scabs, and hoped that somehow her kiss could help make up for years of not being kissed at all.

"Better?" she asked when she raised her head. She'd smiled softly when she said it, but the smiled faded when Daryl looked away, squirmed against the blanket. "Daryl?"

He fussed with the blanket, his gaze fixated on the pattern the candlelight threw on the stripes and stars. She'd resolved her that he wasn't going to answer, or that he'd merely lift a shoulder and give her one of the impressive arsenal of grunts and groans that she'd spent months deciphering, not always successfully. She made another move to rise, but he reached out with his good arm to snag at her wrist, stilling her movement. After a moment his hand slid down, and once again his fingers grasped hers.

She looked away from their clasped hands to meet his eyes, clear and direct and more forthright that she'd ever seen them. 

"Ain't what I meant," he said.

For a moment she didn't understand, and then she did, and it wasn't a surprise at all. She flexed her fingers tightly around his as she bent to his face, and when their lips touched it wasn't like the fairy-tales her daddy read to her before bed as a child. The birds didn't flutter and fly and a song didn't burst forth from the heavens. But there was a quiet surety in her heart, the deep faithful knowledge that what they had together was right and strong and the way it was meant to be. 

Daryl's hand fumbled in her hair, tangling in the long strands. "Ain't lettin' you out of my sight," he murmured when they parted.

"Gonna hold you to that, Mr. Dixon," she answered softly.


End file.
